


A New Age

by Val_Creative



Series: Warlock & His Dollophead [30]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows, Bottom Arthur, Canon Era, Humor, M/M, Magical Pregnancy, Mpreg, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 16:18:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1716917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin doesn’t occupy his bed with him, as Arthur complains about the shared heat—but he does join Arthur for long naps, upright with an arm nestling around Arthur’s pillow. Arthur settles deeper into the cushions, longing for his beloved companion for no particular reason.</p><p><i>Beloved</i>, Arthur repeats to himself. Oh dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Age

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chrissie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrissie/gifts).



> (A very special thank you to my friends on Skype who encouraged this on, even when I was whining, and The Merlin Family as well as The Warlock and His King Network on Tumblr for being a wonderfully excitable bunch ❤ ❤ ❤ )
> 
>  
> 
> Day #30: "whatever pleases you"

*

 

He's never felt like this before.

Magic teems in every vein he has, pulling his core, bursting in crackles of light underneath the surface. Merlin feels the eve's air and ground reverberate, toes damp and wriggling to the soil, murmuring to him with an ancient tongue no one else could hear.

Telling him fear only ruled the hearts of men, telling Merlin he was infinite and small and _alive_.

 

*

 

Essetir is no friend of Camelot.

But disguised as peasants, they can go anywhere. Even if it meant risking poisoned darts and Lot's soldiers.

Merlin feels _amazing_ and he doesn't wait until Arthur gulps the rest of his cup of mead, before launching onto him, knocking them over with legs tangled and mouths blazing for kiss-contact. He wants to soak in the heat emitting. Merlin wants to sink and vanish forever, gasping against Arthur's opened, red-raw lips.

The crudely fashioned bed-frame squeaks, banging minutely to the inn's wall. Merlin counts them fortunate that a majority of the tavern celebrate their own drunken stupor below. Not that he would ask for the silence as opposed to Arthur's breathy grunts of effort, pleasure ragging him as he buckles on top of Merlin, arse clenching around Merlin's shaft.

"Go faster," Merlin whines out, impatiently. His head impacting the thin-feeling cot.

It's too good, it's _so_ good. The friction drives him mad.

With a smaller downwards push, Arthur's muscles undulated further and Merlin can thrust as he likes, sliding through the oil, touching something more intimate than he believes. When Arthur shifts, body rising and pulling off him, Merlin sighs out, his cock engorged and darkly colored and springing back to Merlin's abdomen, leaving a smear of precum.

He drags Merlin over him, going to his knees as Merlin enters him, sloppily pushing the glistening tip to catch Arthur's rim, his orgasm a hair away. He does succumb to it, filling Arthur with his seed, thighs going rigid as the pressure increases when Arthur comes, moaning into his forearms.

Merlin softly grins, petting over the display of Arthur's golden back, unconsciously tracking how his spine tenses.

"That was…"

"Leave me, Merlin." Arthur says coldly, rolling away, "Go attend to the horses."

Merlin hesitates, staring outright.

He's unsure of the emotion to pinpoint on. But it does feel like his lungs were tight.

"… Yes, of course, _sire_ ," he says in a biting tone, yanking for his ruined trousers as Arthur's face drifts to perfected stoic. "Whatever _you_ command."

His magic sends out a weakened current of energy, shoving at one of Arthur's shoulders invisibly, viciously.

Arthur does nothing to it, says nothing to him. He burrows down on the left side of the tiny cot, stealing all the covers. Merlin seethes, banging the door behind him, teeth gritting.

 

*

 

It's been years since Morgana's last plot against Camelot. Uther's spirit remains broken, leaving him either raving or drooling in his vegetative state.

He discovers Arthur slumped lifeless besides his desk, perspiring and a shade too white.

"Gods," Merlin says, voice detached, but he heaves the polished weapons onto a table, several missing and clattering deafeningly. "Arthur, wake up." Merlin grabs his overheated face. "Wake up, you stupid _toad_!" he yells, too panicked to register his actions. Merlin clouts a palm across Arthur's cheek, hard as he can, relieved to hear a low, confused noise.

"What the hell… rrru doing on the floor?"

"What the _hell_ are _you_ doing on the floor?" Merlin retorts, eyebrows drawing together. "You passed out."

"Dizzy," Arthur mumbles, eyelids drooping over summery-blue eyes.

Merlin purses his lips in thought, fingers tightening on Arthur. He gently sets Arthur's head back.

"I'm going to find Gaius," he announces, sprinting for Arthur's bed and snatching up two of the pillows. "Don't move. You're going to be alright."

"You're… a terrible wet-nurse, Merlin."

He wrinkles his nose at the snubbing, weird remark, but can't help smiling. If Arthur still has the energy to argue, that's good news.

"I do what I can, m'lord," Merlin says, responding with a light brush of a kiss to Arthur's knuckles.

 

*

 

Gaius has no definite answers.

But he recommends a younger woman from the lower town, a reassuring kind of cheerful and bright-eyed personality. Merlin hears a whisper of _midwife_.

"I do believe this is a first I've seen," she chirps, nodding to Arthur. "You're displaying all the correct symptoms."

"It isn't true. I'm a king—not only that, I don't have the— _parts_ —necessary," Arthur stutters, nearly flailing, embarrassed.

"A magical conception is not entirely unheard of, in the days of the Old Religion."

Gaius folds his hands into the sleeves of his textured robes, pointing his chastising look at his ward.

" _Merlin_ ," Arthur's head snaps to him, a growl escaping him. Merlin slackens his mouth to open wide, disorientated.

"I… I didn't know…"

"You had to have known _something_!" Arthur's fists slam into the sides of the bedding. "With you and your bloody magic!"

"I couldn't exactly help that, Arthur—I was _born_ like this!" Merlin shouts.

"And I'm _with child_ because of you, you buffoon sorcerer!"

"My lord, please," the midwife starts to plead, suddenly looking worried. "This fighting isn't healthy for the babe. Your condition is very delicate."

To Merlin's utter amazement, Arthur looks down at himself, as if mentally stricken, and automatically touching his flat belly.

"Bed-rest would be recommended, for the fainting spells," Gaius says calmly, packing up his supplies in his medicine bag.

Merlin's eyes narrow, watching as Arthur's hand situated on himself jolts, as if burned.

 

*

 

With the death sentence on all forms of sorcery already well on its way to being lifted, they all enjoy peace.

But—it's a lie. There's no peace for anyone while Arthur's pregnancy hormones boil over.

He's gaining weight rapidly and prone to explosive tempers, whether throwing jugs at Merlin or crying fits that put him a shameful mood for the rest of the day, even while Merlin's fingers kindly stroke his hair, circling against Arthur's scalp and relaxing him.

What puts Arthur in a scary good mood, and emphasis on _scary_ , is leading the training grounds.

"Put your _backs_ into it!" Arthur gestures furiously at his men as they weave around each other, feinting and lunging their swords. He paces one spot of grass, right near where Merlin sits and observes from a bench. If he keeps at it, Merlin supposes the grass would wear down and flatten. "I've seen _crones_ with more steel in their blood than you lot!"

"Arthur…"

" _Run the drills again_!"

The knights collectively groan in their heads.

Lancelot and Gwaine exchange furtive glances, and then stare beseechingly at Merlin ' _help us he's too far gone we're gonna die_ ' to which Merlin frowns sympathetically.

"Arthur," he tries again, waiting until the other man glances doubtfully at him. A ringed hand skimming over Arthur's slightly distended belly. No armour, no chain-mail. Arthur hadn't been allowed, with Gaius and the midwife's list of instructions. "Perhaps it's time for someone else to train the knights, for a little while… while you're…"

One of Arthur's eyes begin twitching.

Merlin sucks an inhale, bracing himself.

"While you're carrying our babe," he amends, seriously. "Gaius would tell you you need be off your feet, not overworking yourself."

Instead of the expected, immediate temper tantrum, Arthur only jeers, lips curling faintly.

"Is that an _order_ , Merlin?"

"No, it isn't, but you should heed it anyway," Merlin says, toeing the dirt and smiling knowingly in return.

 

*

 

He hates this.

Arthur hates feeling powerless and swollen in his own body, unable to dress appropriately in his ceremonial attire as the newly appointed _King_ of Camelot.

But…

Arthur's grown used to the feeling of little, soft movements. Talking affectionately to the life blossoming inside him, whenever Arthur could get a moment to himself. The babe often recognized Arthur's voice, getting excitable. Which was desirable in the evenings while Arthur slept, keeping the constant aches and his irritability at bay.

Merlin doesn't occupy his bed with him, as Arthur complains about the shared heat—but he does join Arthur for long naps, upright with an arm nestling around Arthur's pillow.

He settles deeper into the cushions, longing for his beloved companion for no particular reason.

 _Beloved_ , Arthur repeats to himself. Oh dear.

He pushes up his loose, white tunic, distracting the tender, warm feelings about Merlin by inspecting the roundness of his stomach. Only several more months until Arthur would be himself once more. But _however_ he and Merlin ended up in this position, accidental magical conception or that rot, Arthur's child would not be treated with malice or ill will.

The babe had a legitimate claim to Arthur's throne, and would have that affirmed as soon as Geoffrey came to him about the revised court documents.

Arthur's fingers gently lace across his exposed, warmed skin before he notices a familiar face.

"Guinevere," he says, bewildered.

Just as Arthur removes his hands, making to push down his tunic, Guinevere stays his hand by touching his wrist.

"… May I?" she asks, beaming. When Arthur indicates she can approach, Guinevere perches on the edge of his bed, shyly holding her palm over Arthur's bump. "It's quite miraculous, isn't it?" Guinevere's eyes crinkle up. "Then again, I suppose most who can bear children are."

He supposes she speaks from experience, remembering how she carried herself gracefully through the corridors, heavy with her and Lancelot's babe, always sweet and polite.

Arthur clears his throat. "How is your son?" he asks.

"A terror," Guinevere says honestly, but laughing. "But I love him. With all my heart— _oh_ ," she backs off as Arthur's large, pale stomach wobbles visibly.

He swallows down a wince, not pained by the curious, overwhelming sensation but mildly uncomfortable. Arthur brings his hands up to cup its sides.

"I'm not sure what its doing."

"What does it feel like?"

"Muscle spasms," Arthur confesses.

"Then he's likely hiccuping. My stomach would do that for Galahad." She says, arranging herself with her hands primly in her lap. "Try rubbing yours slowly. It may calm him down."

He doesn't bother rectifying her statement, especially since Arthur didn't know either what the babe's sex was. Arthur slides his palm over the top of his bump, doing as suggested, and is amazed that the tremble calms, until he can't feel it after a couple minutes. Arthur grins in silent appreciation, meeting Guinevere's dark eyes.

"See?"

Arthur hums absently.

"I _can't_ believe I've been confined to my chambers," he grumbles. "By _Merlin_."

Guinevere sighs as if she's heard this before. "He's worried for you. And from what I heard, _you_ have been not been resting as you should."

If there is one continuous behavior about Guinevere that he admired, it was her ability to speak freely to him, despite their statuses.

"My men need training," he says, giving her a studious expression.

"And from what I understand, Leon is handling the task as you recover, as your men dutifully follow him in your stead. They need you well." She asks, "You still attend your counsels?"

"Not for long." Arthur then wears an uncharacteristically wide-eyed look.

"I'm going to be _huge_ , Guinevere," he says, groaning loudly. "Bigger than this."

Guinevere laughs again, much to his chagrin.

"Oh, just listen to you fuss!" she teases.

" _Guin_ evere…"

She had been spending far too much time with Merlin, the clotpole.

 

*

 

Merlin spends more time during the evenings, as Arthur grows heavier and rounder, now unable to stand from the bed or chairs without aid.

"I've spoken to Iseldir—y'know, the Druid cheiftain," he says, lying in bed with him and massaging Gaius's ointment for Arthur's stretchmarks into warm, dimpled flesh. "He knows an enchantment that will help us." Merlin explains, ignoring the lazy, searching tug on his blue scarf, "During the fertility rituals, it was common for men for also participate."

 _Hmm_.

"And this man was one of them?" Arthur drawls, focusing on Merlin's concentrated face, "He… had been able to carry?"

Merlin's lips thin.

"Do you remember the Druid boy you held your sword to when we took the Cup of Life?" he mentions, appearing sheepish. "That was Iseldir's son… who he carried."

The recollection of his past actions has Arthur shutting his eyes, posing his hands together and wiping his face in exasperation.

"And you suppose he is perfectly _alright_ helping us?" Arthur says, sardonically.

"I _know_ he is," Merlin replies, mapping his fingers over the shiny, firm belly. The confidence (as well as Merlin's obvious show of fondness) does help reassure him.

"You're a good man, Arthur. That's the only reason."

 

*

 

Upon a cool slab of granite, writhing and naked, Arthur half-listens to the noises around him.

Merlin grasps his hand securely, their fingers knotted, chanting along with the Druids.

His gaze full of orange, glowing flames.

Arthur's eyes land on Merlin's hand pressing down on the curve of his huge, quivering belly. And then, a sense of _emptiness_ rips through him. Arthur cries out, neck bowing, arching up, his vision spinning and darkening. He comes down from the pure _sensation_ , dazed and watery-limbed and squeezing Merlin's fingers roughly when the warlock calls his name.

"Merlin—"

"I'm here," Merlin whispers, lips scraping Arthur's hand before he kisses Arthur with so much _devotion_ and love—it's _love_ , isn't it—that Arthur's eyes pleasantly stung.

A shrill wail directed their attention to Iseldir and his son. The teenage Druid offers them a quiet smile, holding out the pinkened, squalling newborn.

Merlin steps forward, cradling his and Arthur's son with both arms. He pushed his fingertips through peachy, fine hairs, staring down in awe.

"You have been blessed, Arthur Pendragon," Iseldir says, solemnly, but his smile wide and enigmatic.

"It is a new age for us all."

 

*


End file.
